


Stay In

by QueenRedhead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Hug, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, basically they’re married and they finally acknowledge that they’re married, omg it’s so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenRedhead/pseuds/QueenRedhead
Summary: It’s been three months since Crowley and Aziraphale dodged Armageddon, and they’ve since settled into a new routine. But it becomes clear that Aziraphale isn’t totally free from certain heavenly influences. Thankfully, Crowley knows just the way to make him feel better.





	Stay In

“No… No… No… Ugh, god, no… no…”

Crowley sits in his apartment, in his office, in his throne, sideways. Considering his height and the rigidity of the chair, this means his upper half reclines over one arm while his lower half, legs crossed, balances on the other. Nothing about the way he’s folded looks comfortable, but, then again, nothing about Crowley invites much comfort. And he doesn’t seem bothered by it. One arm hangs limp at his side, fingers nearly brushing the floor, while his other arm holds his hand, which holds his smartphone, which holds more information than could ever be useful to anybody, and he swipes at the screen with one thumb in the lazy way people do when they’re in no hurry to get anywhere.

Scrolling lists of nearby restaurants and attractions reflect on his sunglasses. Each item is appraised for barely a second before it’s dismissed. Either Crowley has already gone through all of these lists before, or he simply has no patience for reading things thoroughly. Both are equally likely to be true.

“No… No… Oh? Maybe? Wait, no, boring, bleh… No… No...”

In the other room, Aziraphale wanders about and mists Crowley’s houseplants. It’s not something he does often (nor was it something he’d done ever up until just recently), but it’s something he likes to do when he gets the chance. Any little thing he can do for Crowley is a thing he cherishes because he knows he’s the only one who does things for Crowley just to be nice. And the plants, not used to such niceness, don’t seem to mind it, either.

“No… No…” Tossing back his head, Crowley lets out a frustrated groan. “Angel, we have a problem.”

“What’s that?”

Crowley tosses his phone onto his desk and sinks further down into his throne. “I’ve looked at every travel blog and entertainment magazine listicle, and there is absolutely nothing to do in London today.”

Aziraphale regards Crowley with one eyebrow raised. “Nothing at all? You’re sure?”

“Nothing fun, anyhow.”

Aziraphale smiles and spritzes a very darling peace lily. “Well, as far as problems go, that’s not such a bad one to have.”

“No. The world could be ending.”

And despite himself, Aziraphale chuckles.

It’s been about three months since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, which means Crowley and Aziraphale have had three months to adjust to a life on their own where they report to nobody but themselves. It was strange at first, to be sure. Aziraphale has never known a life without orders, and Crowley has never known one without constant lies and embellishments, so, for a time, their days were littered with tiny voids where these things used to take up some portion of attention. They could feel the odd gaps as they came up, but try as they might, they could neither name nor explain them.

Soon enough, they began filling these voids with each other. Without any looming forces bidding them stay separate, they found themselves seeing each other more and more frequently until it became normal for them to spend significant chunks of the day together. Sometimes that means going out to lunch or walking around town, sometimes it means taking small trips outside of England to explore the present-day world, but more often than not, it means staying over at each other’s homes for extended periods of time, just because they can.

Where they end up is generally decided by invitation or coin toss. It doesn’t matter much to either of them because they wind up doing the same things regardless of their location: drink some kind of alcohol, listen to some kind of music, tease each other about some thing or another, and, if Crowley can convince Aziraphale to be adventurous, watch some sort of movie. Although not much of a movie person (or technology person, for that matter), Aziraphale rarely refuses. He claims it to be good background noise for the crocheting he’s taken up lately (hospitals are always looking for hats for premature babies, and aside from being charitable, it gives him another hobby to fill up his infinite time), but he agrees mostly because he knows it makes Crowley happy. That, and it’s rather amusing watching him berate the characters for their predictably human decisions, especially in horror movies or romantic comedies.

More than once, they’ve shared a couch and ended up leaning against one another. They start with a good foot and a half of space between them, but through a process of shifting and adjusting, the distance slowly closes. Crowley finds himself with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, or Aziraphale finds himself with his head in Crowley’s lap, and they stay like that without saying anything until the movie ends. Neither of them make a point to bring it up, so it remains unmentioned. Just like the way their hands brush, or they place hands on each other’s shoulders, or their shoulders press together while they stand side-by-side. Little gestures that are absolutely noticed and absolutely not talked about.

Deep down, and even not-so-deep down, they know how they feel about each other. It’s something that’s followed them around for decades (or, in some cases, millennia), vaguely coloring every conversation and interaction they have. But for so long, the idea of _them_ , the idea of being _something_ other than strained acquaintances, was impossible. It was something so unthinkable it was decidedly best not to think about it. So they pushed that idea away. They hid their feelings, disguised them as best they could, never daring to address them directly lest it lead to things more difficult for them to cover up.

And that worked, at the time. But now, after so many years of skirting around the issue, neither of them has any idea how to breach it. They’ve become trapped within the confines of their own strange relationship, cursed to grow closer and closer while never speaking a word about it.

But, as unfortunate as their situation may be, at least the world isn’t ending.

They can always be grateful for that.

“I hear there’s a new seafood restaurant just up the way,” says Aziraphale. “Maybe we could try that.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Eh, too fishy. And I’ve heard the oysters are just terrible.”

“Ah, not worth going then,” says Aziraphale with a hum. “Maybe we should rely on an old classic, get some ice cream in the park.”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise, gesticulating vaguely. “We’re getting closer to something, definitely, but that’s not quite it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, moving from one plant to another, “I wasn’t expecting to leave London again so soon, but maybe we could--”

He stops, his voice fizzling and dying in his throat as he glances up and recognizes his full reflection staring back at him. It’s an odd place to find a mirror, between two houseplants, but he can’t be too surprised. Of course Crowley would want a mirror in some other place beside the bedroom, just to check and make sure nothing about him is out of place. How else could he remain so wonderfully groomed?

But it’s a strange experience, looking into that mirror, because it isn’t very often that Aziraphale runs into mirrors. He certainly doesn’t own any, and even when he does see them, he doesn’t tend to actively notice them. And he doesn’t think himself so vain as to _want_ to look at himself in the mirror very often, but as he passes in front of this one, he can’t help but catch sight of his own figure. Setting the plant mister aside, he lets his hands settle on his middle. He twists one way, then another way, all the while maintaining the same slightly displeased expression.

Crowley’s voice shoves its way into Aziraphale’s moment. “Maybe we could do what, angel?”

“Oh, just, maybe we could plan a trip, or something of the like,” Aziraphale answers quickly. Before Crowley can reply, he continues, “Would you answer me something honestly?”

“Can’t promise anything, but go ahead.”

“Do you…” Aziraphale gulps. “Do you think I’m too… too soft?”

Crowley, who isn’t looking at Aziraphale at all, snorts and says, “Yes, actually. You’re very soft. Very kind. Entirely too nice in every situation. It’s rather sickening, if you ask me, which you did, so, there.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I meant soft in the sense that I’m, well, you know…” He gestured, somewhat self-consciously, to his stomach area. “Pudgy.”

Crowley turns in his throne so suddenly he almost sends himself sprawling to the floor. “Pudgy? Why would you think--”

“Well, it’s just--”

Recovering quickly, Crowley stands and makes his way to Aziraphale’s side, peering at him dangerously through his sunglasses. “What’s all this about? You’ve never gone on about this before. What would make you think that you’re--” He pauses, his dark aura growing even darker. “Who was it? Who called you pudgy? Who put the idea in your head? I need name, address, shoe size--”

“Crowley, would you please calm down--”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, you calm down!” Crowley hisses, but he does stop talking long enough to let Aziraphale speak.

“Nobody really, it’s not like, it’s just--” he stammers, grasping for the best way to explain himself. Finally, at Crowley’s impatient look, he sighs and says, “It was Gabriel, alright? Months ago, among all the Armageddon chaos, he made a comment about my… gut, as it were, and I guess it’s stuck with me since then.”

For a moment, Crowley looks torn between imploding and exploding. He wrestles with himself quietly before deflating, apparently recognizing that no matter how much he’d like to storm heaven and behead the archangel Gabriel, it isn’t a very realistic idea. Still, his jaw clenches. “If that twat ever shows his face around here again, I’ll--” He trails off, shoving his fists in his pockets.

Appreciating the thought, Aziraphale offers him a half smile before looking back at his reflection. “Do you think I should hold off on the human food? Maybe make an effort to get some…” He frowns at the very thought of it. “Exercise?”

Crowley scoffs. “Do _I_ think that? No, absolutely not! But it’s not up to me. _You_ like being the way you are, and living the way you do, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Then that’s that, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale nods, though he doesn’t look completely convinced. “I suppose so…”

Still upset, but even more shattered by the way Aziraphale looks disappointed in himself, Crowley pushes away his murderous inclinations for a moment. He slinks around Aziraphale in a half circle, looking him up and down. Just when the angel starts to seem nervous, he says, “If you really wanna know what _I_ think, I rather like how… soft you are. It fits your personality. Approachable. Friendly.” He clears his throat and glances away. “Huggable.”

Something hopeful comes over Aziraphale’s face. It’s light and uncertain, but hopeful nonetheless. “Really? You think so?”

Crowley nods stiffly, still not quite looking at Aziraphale. In the silence that follows, Aziraphale appraises himself once again, and this time, he smiles.

“I don’t know that we’ve ever hugged,” he says quietly, quickly following with, “on purpose, that is. Not that I can recall.”

“No, I think you’re right.” A lot of the tension has left Crowley’s shoulders, but he hasn’t completely relaxed. Not before he knows where Aziraphale is going with this.

After another small silence, Aziraphale turns to face Crowley fully and open his arms to him. Crowley tilts his head and says, “What this? What are you-- oh.”

Aziraphale inclines his head shyly.

Crowley turns and clears his throat again. He takes his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back in, then takes them out and puts one hand on his hip while the other scratches the back of his head. “Do you want-- Should we--? Ah, I don’t know if I’d be any good at it, honestly. Haven’t had a lot of practice, so maybe we should just--”

“Maybe we should just… try?” Aziraphale stretches his arms further and shuffles forward. His face is earnest, like always, and it shows plainly that he was just as nervous, excited, and scared as Crowley is. “No judgement. I’m not exactly ‘practiced’ myself.”

As if physically weighing his options, Crowley shifts from one foot to the other. His head wiggles, his teeth click together, and his shoulders bob before he finally breaks and says, “Alright! Fine! I’ll… try.”

Awkwardly, he brings himself closer to Aziraphale and wraps his arms around him. Aziraphale does the same, pulling Crowley in closer and daring to give him a small, experimental squeeze. Against his better instincts, Crowley melts, letting his hands ball up on the back of Aziraphale’s coat and letting his head rest in the angel’s fluffy hair. It’s soft, just as he’d expected, and it smells like happiness. And that’s not a metaphor: it smells, quite literally, like the concept of happiness.

He can’t remember the last time he’s hugged someone. Has he ever?

They stand holding each other for a long while, Crowley’s hand slowly rubbing Aziraphale’s back, Aziraphale’s nose slowly warming in Crowley’s neck, and, eventually, Crowley sighs and mumbles, “Yep, I knew it. Just as I suspected. You’re very, ah… very huggable…”

Aziraphale chuckles, a soft noise that makes Crowley’s heart stir.

When they finally pull away, they don’t actually move that much. About an inch of space opens up between them, but their hands stay where they are, and they look at each other. Just look at each other. Crowley is mesmerized. Mesmerized by the arch of Aziraphale’s eyebrows, the smoothness of his cheeks, the curve of his lips. The way his eyes are green, gray, and brown all at the same time, but never simultaneously.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Aziraphale reaches up and removed his sunglasses. “What are you--”

“I just, well,” Aziraphale says, already flustered. “I just wanted to see your eyes, is all.”

Crowley’s face goes hot. “My eyes? What about my eyes?”

“They’re just, they’re nice to look at! I think they’re,” he pauses to search for the right word, bringing one hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek. He leans in a bit closer, looking deep into yellow irises as if expecting the word to appear written within them. Then, satisfied he’s figured it out, he grins and says, “Lovely. They’re just lovely.”

Crowley is speechless. He struggles to think of something to say, some sort of retort, or rebuttal, or sarcastic quip, or even a deflecting joke, but his startled mind provides nothing. All he can do is look at his angel and murmur from his heart, “I’m going to kiss you.”

“What--” Aziraphale says, but before he can finish his thought, Crowley takes the angel’s head in both hands and pulls their mouths together. As quick as the movement is, it’s incredibly gentle, so after a single, surprised gasp, Aziraphale lets his eyes flutter closed and his lips move sweetly against Crowley’s.

Feeling Aziraphale kiss back almost makes Crowley want to cry. Almost. His fingers thread into Aziraphale’s hair, becoming more acquainted with his softness. Yes, the angel is soft. There’s no doubt about that. And there’s nothing on this planet Crowley enjoys more than his softness. It’s something he will care for and protect for as long as he lives. That is to say, for the rest of eternity.

They kiss for longer than is probably appropriate, but neither of them care. They’re alone, and they’re content, and for the first time ever, there’s no one above or below who can prevent them from being just that.

But they do pull apart eventually, if not to breathe, then to look at each other in wonder. Thousands of years of words unsaid fill the space between them as they look at each other.

Then, finally, Crowley swallows and says, “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about doing that.”

And Aziraphale replies coyly, “I might.”

Which is such a perfect and beautiful response it makes Crowley laugh out loud. He throws his head back in delight, and Aziraphale laughs with him, and before too long they’re kissing again. And again. On and on until the prospect of going out anywhere is completely beyond them.

But, at this point, they both agree they would rather stay in for the day, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you want to watch me cope with stress by cracking jokes (or you want info about requests), you can follow me on Twitter: [Queen_Redhead](https://twitter.com/Queen_Redhead)
> 
> Or, if you have any questions about me or what I do (especially if you want to remain anonymous), here's my Curious Cat: [Queen_Redhead](https://curiouscat.me/Queen_Redhead)


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